Falling Slowly
by WaterGhost
Summary: Lilly and Miley find out that some things, no matter how much time passes, always stay the same.
1. Chapter 1

So this was kind of a spur of the moment type thing I created while putting off studying for a test. It was going to be a one shot, but three pages turned into eight and I just seemed to be going so I'm going to break it up and expand it if the readers think it's going somewhere. This is my first time writing for the show, and I took some liberties with the characters, but be patient and have an open mind. And don't forget to review with any comments or ideas you might have!

Thanks,

Sarah

Standard disclaimers apply

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Falling Slowly

It's a cold and clear day in New York City, beautiful and busy as always. Taxis honk and whiz up and down the narrow streets and avenues, yuppies and hippies alike plod along the sidewalks, street vendors peddle their wares. People speak English, Japanese, Spanish, German, French, Russian. Red, yellow, black, white, brown, every color and creed all mixing in one city. It never ceases to amaze me, how different things are in this city.

It's been over 7 years since I left Malibu and high school behind. A week after my graduation, I got onto a plane and flew to New York City. Sure, I've been back; to visit my Mom and my other family in California, but of course it's not the same. My home has moved.

I'd always loved writing, but it wasn't until senior year that I really wanted to make my small passion my livelihood. So I packed my life up and moved to New York, where my dad was working at the time. It was there that I found music journalism. For years I paid my dues, worked as a bartender in bars and clubs, but I met the most amazing bands and soon began to write for amateur and underground music magazines. And to my surprise, I was good. I was very good. Eventually, I worked as a temp at Rolling Stone, then became an intern, and then, last year, was made a full staff member. I nearly cried when Eric told me. I was ecstatic.

I'm sitting in a little café, drinking coffee. It's early, a little after 7. It's not too often that I'm up this early, but I've been stricken by simultaneous bouts of insomnia and restlessness. My laptop is open in front of her me, a blank word program staring back at me, the curser blinking, blinking, immobile on the screen. I'm stuck.

It's moments like this that I remember how much New York isn't southern California. In Malibu, people pay big money for wide space, views of the beach, for solitude. They pay for a lazy, laid back, easy going lifestyle filled with sun. New York is kinetic, constantly in motion, cramped, closed in by concrete buildings on every side. The sounds are the most different. If there is a dull buzzing in Malibu, then New York has a big set of drums, bass and cymbals and snares that endlessly play a beat that the whole city moves to. The first few years were incredibly hectic and loud, but I've grown used to the beat of the city, grown to like it, and there are times at night when the city quiets just a tiny bit.

I put on my headphones to help drown out the cacophony of honking horns and play an mp3 from some band, one of hundreds that I've listened to in the past week or so. It's a short piece that I'm writing, find a talented undiscovered gem of an artist and write an article. For the most part, I'm sent either rhyme-challenged rappers, indecipherable screamo bands, or some "singer-songwriter" who knows how to play 4 chords on a guitar. This one is the latter, and to top it off, a whiny nasally voice pierces my ears. I hit stop, and take a long pull of my coffee. It's going to be a trying couple of weeks.

I'm now listening to the Ramones, a band a little loud for so early in the morning, but I'm hoping the punk will put me into a better mood than I've been in lately.

I distract myself by munching on a croissant and reading the daily news online. The minutes tick by.

And then someone walks by the window. For a moment, it doesn't register. But then, memory hits me like a flash of lightning and I'm in a surreal slow-motion state of semi-consciousness as my mind registers that I know the person who's literally a few feet from me and separated by only an inch of glass.

But it can't be. Right? Couldn't be.

But her hair is chestnut, her gait long and smooth just like I remember. She's wearing sunglasses, but I could always recognize that profile, even after all this time. And then, her head turns slightly as she stops in front of the door to the café, fumbles in her pocket for what is probably her cell phone. No doubts now.

Miley Stewart.

I remove my headphones, slightly breathless, hoping that she sees me, and half wishing that she doesn't. She keeps the phone pressed to her ear for a minute or so, earnestly engaged in conversation. And then, she clicks the phone shut, and turns.

Shit.

I freeze, panic, look down at my computer. She won't see me. It's been too long. I wait for a few tense moments, and then carefully lift my head.

Our eyes meet. She's taken off her sunglasses and her brown eyes stare straight into my blue ones, utterly deer-in-the-headlights, and my eyes probably reflect the same reaction. My heart pounds, my breath hitches in panic and recognition.

Miley Stewart.

She blinks at me for a few more seconds, and I stand. Will she come in? She does, watching me the whole time.

"Lillian Truscott." Her voice is a little deeper, more mature than I remember.

"Miley Stewart." It feels odd to form the syllables in my mouth. There is a brief silence; the air is thick between us.

"You look amazing," I say. And she does. She's wearing high heeled boots, form-fitting jeans, and a tight red pea coat. Her chestnut hair is a little shorter than I remember it, but it still flows in waves down her back. She smiles, a bright smile that I remember all too well. Some things never change.

"You're kind," she replies, looks me up and down. "But you look wonderful."

I blush. I haven't blushed in years, but Miley always seems to have a way to make me.

"Thanks."

She stares at me, trying to analyze me, looks me up and down again a few times. I hesitate, then point towards my table.

"Do you have someplace to be? I'm sitting right over there. I could buy you a coffee, if you'd like." It's a bold move for me, and I'm not really sure why I'm making it.

She smiles again, looks down at her feet, then back up again. "Yeah, that would be good. I don't have to be anywhere until about noon anyway."

I nod. "Let me get you something then."

She starts to protest but I hold up a hand. "Come on, Miles. Let me."

She nods in response. "Okay then. Low fat cappuccino, please."

"Coming up."

As I'm standing in line waiting to order Miley's coffee, a suddenly memory strikes me. The last time we had seen each other face to face, we were both 18, still children in essence. It was three weeks after our graduation from Seaview High School and I was standing outside of LAX, ready to board a plane and leave California and all that I knew.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The busy LAX traffic swirls around me. Mom left a few minutes ago, so I'm crying. I already miss her. Half of me tells me to stay, to call her and tell her to turn around, but my ticket and boarding pass is in my hand. No going back now. I take a long, deep breath, and gather my carry-on bags. Time to go.

"Lilly!"

I know that voice. I turn my head sharply, look for the speaker, but the crowd is too thick.

"Lilly, wait!"

And from between two business men in suits comes Miley at a full run. Why is she here? I don't have the time to ask or think, as soon as she's within arms length, we seize each other in a fierce hug, wrapping our arms around each other's bodies tightly. After a few moments, she breaks the hug. We are both crying.

"Do you have to go?"

I laugh through my tears and hold up my ticket. "It's pretty much all set now!"

She smiles. "I know. I know. Go be brilliant, okay? Don't forget to call and write."

In a bold move, I place a hand on her cheek. "And always remember to be Miley."

She begins to sob, and I hold her close once again. "And don't forget," I whisper into her ear through my tears, "that I'll always love you."

And then, I'm gone. I cry most of the way to New York, nearly 5 whole hours.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

That was almost 8 years ago.

"How long has it been?" She asks as casually as she can as I return with her coffee and close my laptop with my free hand. It's a sore spot for both of us. Five years of intense, inseparable best friendship, and then nothing. The fault is placed on both of us.

"Nearly 8 years," I reply. "Does that make us old?"

She laughs. "Hardly. You look as young as ever. How are you, Lilly? I was going to call your Mom today for your number, but hadn't gotten up the courage yet."

I smile inside. It's an oddly happy thought we still make each other as nervous as we once did. "I had no idea you were in New York. Do you live here?"

She shakes her head. "No, I bought a nice apartment in LA about two years ago. But Daddy doesn't like to travel so much anymore, so he sends me to take care of business from time to time."

I lean forward. "I read in the tabloids that there's talk of a Hannah Montana comeback tour. Wanna give me an inside scoop?"

She laughs and wags one long finger at me. "Like I would ever tell a music journalist. Miss I-work-for-Rolling-Stone? Please."

I give my best mischievous smile. After a long moment, she answers.

"No, that's all speculation. It's amazing what they can come up with these days."

It's amazing that we can speak so lightly, and yet there is this heaviness in my chest that I can't get rid of. She's so utterly and completely beautiful, her eyes sparkle exactly the same as when we were kids, her smile still full of joy. All these schoolgirl feelings, the flush, the racing heart, the nervous fluttering. Even after all these years, we still do these things to each other. For a moment, I see a hunger in her eyes and I am almost undone. It takes me a second to compose myself.

"Do you still write music?"

She nods. "Sometimes. But it's all very private now. I write for me. The rest of the time, I produce. I'm happy where I am."

We talk for hours, catch up. It's gossip, mostly. We talk about Oliver, who's been married to Sarah for almost three years and who's about to become a father. We joke about how we were both at the wedding but conveniently managed to miss each other the whole night. He has a son, now. A beautiful little family. Miley tells me how she saw him while visiting Oliver and Sarah a few months ago, and even shows me a picture.

On the tip of my tongue is "what happened to us?" It's the elephant in the room. All these years with no contact, no hugs, no Miley. Just the memory of our touch and the last time I told her I loved her. I want to hug her now, but I am too scared to do that. I never was that good at saying the obvious, at acting on my true feelings and desires.

Finally, I check the time. I should head in to the office. She notices.

"Am I keeping you?"

I put my laptop in its carrying case to distract myself and avoid looking into her deep brown eyes.

"I should make an appearance in the office. The boss will want to talk to me. Do you have to work today?"

She nods and stands with me. "I'll have to be in the studio soon." She steps around the table so that we're close enough to touch, and I'm suddenly having trouble breathing.

"It's so good to see you Lilly," she says softly, intimately. I can smell her perfume.

"How long are you going to be in New York?"

"A week."

I take out a card from my case. "Then call me, if you wish, and you can buy me dinner." I smile, and she smiles.

"I would love that."

I don't know why I hold out my hand for a handshake, but Miley takes it and pulls me toward her, lips touching my cheek in a soft kiss. Lightning flows through my body, and I'm speechless.

"I'll call you," she says nervously, and walks out of the café and down the street. I stand, watch her, with only two words in my mind.

Miley Stewart.

------------------------------------------------------------

Well, what do ya think? Ideas? Comments? Criticisms? Review and let me know!

-Sarah


	2. Chapter 2

Part zwei! I actually finished this in record time, because I wanted to have it posted before Spring Break. I will be gone for the whole next week, so no updates, sorry, but I promise I will have something extra juicy when I get back :) I know this story hasn't really been earning it's rating as of yet, but in later chapters that will change, I promise. So enjoy, and let me know if you have any suggestions or ideas!

Thanks,

Sarah

Disclaimer, disclaimer: I doth not dare to claim.

Oh, don't forget to review.

---------------------------------------------------------------------

Lilly Truscott.

I had actually been thinking about her yesterday, during the flight from Los Angeles. Thought about how she had made the same trip all that time ago, wondered if she felt lost, or lonely, or heartsick. I had made countless trips to New York on business, too, but had never seen her. But today, of all days, and in a city of over 8 million people who do I run into?

Lilly Truscott.

We have been avoiding each other, and have been quite successful at doing so for almost 8 years. Even at Oliver's wedding we managed to never be caught in the same room at one time (well, sans the church and the reception hall, and had stayed on opposite sides of the room at all times). It's not that there was bad blood, but, things were just, complicated. Very, very complicated.

But today I run into her at an obscure little café in Manhattan and the memory of her rushes back to me as if mere weeks had passed. I'm still struck by how beautiful she is. She's taller now, but her face still glows with the light and energy and warmth that is always, eternally, undeniably Lilly. I stare like a fool when I see her sitting in the café; watch her for a moment before she notices me. Smooth, Stewart. I must have looked like a creeper.

As much as I'm embarrassed, I want to see her. I want to see how she's doing, after all this time apart. And she looks beautiful. Absolutely and completely grown up, the way I always knew that Lilly could be. She looked so confident, sitting there, a big New York journalist. I want to tell her how proud I am of her, but she doesn't need any reassurance from me. And she's so beautiful that I almost can't believe it. But she still possesses that same quirky sense of style, the bright smile and sense of humor.

We talk. We talk together as if nothing has been dividing us for all these years, as if all the awkward moments we have shared have been pushed out of our minds. I know that isn't true, though, I can see it in her face. But she doesn't push me away, doesn't tell me to leave. She actually smiles at me, and I feel like a little part of myself has returned to me. My best friend. She's accomplished, successful, all on her own, and I couldn't be prouder, or any happier to see her once again. I kiss her cheek, soft and smooth, and she doesn't flinch.

And now I walk the streets in a haze. It's almost surreal, seeing her. Her card is safe in my pocket; Lillian Truscott, Rolling Stone, New York, New York.

I like New York. There's a certain sense of anonymity about the city that I have come to like in my visits the past few years. True, Tennessee will always be my first home, and California has become my second, but as I've traveled around the US, and even to Europe, I've found that I like more and more of the world that I see. I stand at a crosswalk and wait for the 'walk' sign along with several other people. Many have cell phones attached to their ears, engaged in deep conversation, others lost in their own worlds with Ipod earplugs stuck into their ears. Out of the corner of my eye I see a couple, obviously tourists, the oddballs in the bunch, chattering noisily.

"We're lost, Bob," the woman says in a thick Midwest accent.

The man rolls his eyes. "We are not lost, Barbara, I know exactly where we're going."

The woman waves a map in her husband's face. "Oh yeah, Mr. Smarty Pants? Then show me where we are on the map!" Then, she suddenly stops waving it, and I hear a little gasp. The woman is staring at me, and I watch calmly out of my periphery.

"Oh my good golly," the woman whispers loudly, tugging violently on Bob's jacket sleeve. "Bob, look!"

"What in the heck are you going on about?"

"It's that girl! Well, she was a girl."

Bob whispers back. "Who?"

"That music star that Will had that big crush on when he was a kid! What was her name…? Kelly California….no, Hannah Montana! Ooh, it's a celebrity, Bob! Our first celebrity sighting!"

I see Bob sneak a look. "Barbara, don't make a scene."

At this point I'm barely restraining my laughter.

"Oh, Bob, do you think she'd take a picture with me? We could send it to Will, he'd get a kick out of it! A real live celebrity!"

The signals changes, and the crowd moves forward. I walk ahead of the group. I wouldn't think that this would happen here, but it does happen less frequently as the years go by.

After I graduated from high school, Hannah still continued to perform, to record, to do TV and magazines interviews, to walk the red carpet on the arm of some eye candy pretty boy actor. After Jake Ryan I was done with actors, the self-centered attitude that came with them was too much to bear. Plus, I didn't really want to date anyone then.

But it soon grew old, the double life, the duplicity of it all. Why couldn't Miley do what Hannah did? Why did Miley have to be the awkward, feeble, shy, when Hannah was bold, commanding, self-assured? Weren't we the same person? Daddy could see it, and so could Jackson, how tired I had become. Truth to tell, I grew tired of wearing the mask. With no Lola waiting for Hannah offstage, no Lilly to share the secret with Miley, it all seemed so strange and empty.

I had my normal high school experience, free of the limelight, but high school was over. And so, a few weeks before my 19th birthday, Hannah Montana ceased to exist. I believed the magazine headlines read "The Real Hannah Montana: Meet the Girl with the Best of Both Worlds!"

I have no regrets about it; I only wish I could have seen Amber and Ashley's faces when they read the article. For months I couldn't get rid of the paparazzi, I locked myself in the house to avoid the flashes of the cameras, put on headphones to drown out the yelling and the constant questions. I thought I might never escape. Dad and Jackson did their best to protect me. And so, Hannah was gone forever. No more sold-out concerts, no more long nights on the road, no more double life. I gave it all up.

At first, I missed performing live, signing autographs for my little fans, but I began to grow to the quiet life. It was refreshing, for the first time in years, to just be Miley.

And eventually, things began to calm. Tabloid attacks eventually slowed, even the paparazzi began to turn their attention to more troubled young celebrities. And I decided to go to college. I studied through summer, fall, and spring and managed to graduate in three years with a degree in business. Then I went into business with Daddy, working for the record company that had signed Hannah all those years ago.

After a brisk walk I reach my destination and I'm glad to be out of the wind and cold. The studio is swirling with activity and energy, instruments being tuned, vocalists warming up their voices, technicians adjusting equipment. A small, bearded man emerges out of the clamor and shakes my hand warmly. It is Tony, the studio manager and a good friend of mine for a few years now.

"Miley Stewart, my favorite diva pop sensation and best producer ever! You look lovely, darling!"

I smile. "Tony, you flatterer. How are things going?"

He leads me into the recording booth, where two technicians are pushing buttons. "Sound check is almost done," Tony says, "we'll be ready to put down the first track any second now."

I sit in the chair he offers. "Very good. And how is she today?"

The artist we're recording today is Zoë Marquez, a 17 year old Brooklyn native and up-and-coming pop/hip hop artist. For years she recorded music with her friends in her basement, and it was after I stumbled upon her music on the internet that I encouraged the label executives to sign her and let me produce the album. She has such a fresh, new sound, raw and passionate, untainted by the suaveness of Hollywood. She's young and fiery, too, and I see a lot of myself as a young performer in her.

"Good," he says and points to the glass. Zoë is on the other side, waving furiously.

"Hi, Ms. Stewart! Let's do this!" She hops up and down excitedly. I smile at her energy, wave back.

"Okay then, you heard the girl," I say, putting on the soundproof headphones Tony hands to me. "Let's do this."

I sit back with my eyes closed, let the music wash over me. First, the drums, a heavy Latin and Caribbean beat. Then, a powerful rock guitar mixed with a melodic base line. Finally, Zoë's vocals, a powerful commanding voice for such a tiny girl, intense and beautiful.

As the song ends, Tony claps and cheers, beaming. "How about that?" he practically squeals. "Is this girl a winner or what?"

I laugh. "That was an excellent first take," I agree, then lean forward and press the button to the intercom.

"That was really good, Zoë," I say through the intercom. "We're going to do that one more time. And this time, really belt out the chorus, I want this track to really show off the power of your voice." The girl nods and I turn to Tony. "Let's put more emphasis on the drums as well." Tony nods, and presses the button on the intercom.

"Okay, Zoë, take a ten minute break. We're going to adjust the microphones on Zeke's drums."

The girl nods and I feel my phone vibrating in my pocket. I pull it out, check the caller ID.

"It's Los Angeles," I say to Tony quickly, "I'll be back in a minute."

I make my way through the clamor of the recording booths and into a quiet back hallway before I flip open my phone.

"Hi, Dad."

"Hey Miles, how's New York?" I hear my Dad's familiar drawl and it makes me smile.

"Cold. But good. We're off to a great start here, I think." I put the phone to my other ear and adjust my position

"Good. I'm meeting the sharks in an hour so I'm glad to bring 'em a positive update. Okay, I'd best get on the road. Take care in the big city, baby." All these years and he still worries. I chuckle.

"Okay, Daddy."

There is a short pause, and he speaks again. "Are you okay, Miles? You sound distracted."

Busted. "I am, a little bit. But I'll tell you about it later, okay?"

"Okay, baby girl. Be safe. Bye."

"Bye," I click my phone shut, sigh, lean against the wall. As I stand here, I am overcome with a curious sense of déjà vu.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It's near the end of a recording day, and I have to admit that I'm exhausted. One take after another, not to mention the photo shoot that took place earlier today, and I'm hungry and practically dead on my feet. My Hannah wig is particularly hot and itchy today, so I'm continually having to resist the urge to scratch my head. I already talk like a country bumpkin, now they might think that I have lice.

"Okay, Miss Montana," I finally hear over the intercom. "That'll do it for today. We'll see you next week." I sigh. Thank God for Fridays.

Daddy greets me outside the booth with a fake moustache smile. "Way to go, kiddo." He pats my wigged head and gives me a one-armed hug.

"Thank, Dad," I say, voice thick from use and weariness.

"Got a surprise visitor for ya, Miles," Dad says as we walk away from the booths. "Lola called while you were recording so I invited her up here. Maybe you two can do something now that we're done here. She looked pretty bummed when she came in."

My ears prick up, a wave of worry washes over me. "Where is she?"

He points. "In the hallway over there, I think."

I wind through the now empty hallways of the studio past dark offices before I find her, sitting slumped against the wall across from a water cooler. "Lola?"

There Lilly sits, decked out in full Lola style with a blue wig and a black skirt. She lifts her head slowly, then gives me a half smile. "What's shakin', Hannah?"

"Are you all right, hon?" I drop to my knees in front of her. "What happened?"

She's looking at her feet again, her favorite Converse. "I broke up with Marcus today."

"I'm sorry," I say, moving to her side and wrapping an arm around her shoulders in a comforting hug. But this time, she doesn't relax into it, she tenses up, and moves slightly away. I feel surprised and a little hurt.

"Thanks," she says flatly. Now I'm worried.

"Lilly," I say seriously, breaking the secret name code, "what's going on? What's bothering you? Is it just the break-up?"

She wiggles a little bit under my touch, but eventually raises her head. "I just didn't like him, Miley. It just wasn't how it's supposed to feel. I didn't feel him inside, like I should." Her voice breaks. "Miley, I think there's something wrong with me."

I take her hand. "There's nothing wrong with you. If you didn't like him so what? Move on."

She shakes her head vigorously. "It's not like that, Miley. It's all of them. Lucas, Matt, Marcus, all of them; it was never right. And I don't think it ever will be. I think I'm a freak. Miley, I think I might be…"

I feel a panic seize me suddenly, like I'm not quite sure I want to hear what she says next. Quickly, I interrupt. "There's nothing wrong with you, Lilly. And I just know that someday you'll find someone and it will feel perfectly right." I rub her back with my free hand.

When she looks at me, I notice something. A little spark, an unspecified longing that I can't label or identify. She looks at me with such intensity that my heart begins to beat a little faster, and my hands begin to shake. What is this?

After a few agonizing moments, she breaks the gaze and stares at her feet again with an ironic laugh. "You're right, Miley. I'm sorry for freaking out on you."

For a second I am frozen, shocked and haunted by Lilly's blue eyes, the feeling of her bare skin against my fingertips. I am confused. Finally, I wake up.

"That's what friends are for," I clear my throat and chirp as happily as I can muster. I stand, and offer a hand to pull her up. "Now how about we go get a gallon of ice cream and watch a horror movie marathon to make it all better."

She smiles, but it's only a half-smile, still a hint of sadness hidden in it. "Okay, Hannah," she replies.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------

At 16 years old, I hadn't considered the possibility of a sexual identity crisis, but looking back, everything was as plain as the nose on my face. Lilly had always flirted with boys, always swooned and fawned, but it had all stopped. She became withdrawn to everyone, even Oliver, and especially me. There were moments of our old greatness of course, funny moments and good adventures. We still weren't cool at school, but that bothered me less and less as time went on. It was just high school.

Little touches were what bothered me. Most of the time, we were comfortable, joking, like the old Miley and Lilly. But every once in awhile, sitting next to each other, close, watching a movie perhaps, or laying side by side in my bed, we would just touch, and I would feel different somehow. Like I was touching a whole new person, but the familiar smell and softness of her skin would tell me otherwise. Electricity in those small touches, like lightning. I was scared, confused. I shrugged it off.

I was blind then. Blind and dumb. I'm no longer blind, no longer dumb.

"Miss Stewart?" A crew member has stuck his head around the corner. "Are you ready for another take? We've adjust all the equipment. Tony wants to know."

I straighten up very quickly, slide my phone back into my pocket, and nod.

"Yes, of course. Let's get going."

I walk back down the hallway and smile to myself.

Yes, I will call her. Tomorrow.

----------------------------------------------------------------

Bow chicka wow wow :)

Let me know what you think!


	3. Chapter 3

Hello children! Sorry for the delay, but a trip to Europe and subsequent exams upon my return prevented progress. But I am back, and here is chapter three! I hope that you like it, and do encourage any feedback (it might help me write a little faster, you never know). Chapter 4 should be quite soon in coming, I've already written the first part of it.

Standard Disclaimer: The show is not mine nor do I make any type of profit from this venture.

Happy reading!

--

Falling Slowly: Chapter Three

I can't concentrate. I sit at my cubicle at the office, staring at the first rough draft of my latest article, and not liking what I'm seeing. In all actuality it's not too horrible; I've just been in the weirdest mood lately.

Not that it wasn't wonderful seeing Miley again. It was. It was just the last thing I expected, to run into her. It was probably naïve of me to assume that she never visited New York, but after all these years of absolutely no contact I didn't think she would actually be happy to see me.

And how lame am I? I gave her my business card. Like we had just met or something. Hell, I've known the girl (sorry, woman now), for what, 12 something years now? Lame.

I shake these thoughts from my head and try to focus once again on my article. Blah blah blah, new talent this, yada yada, fresh sound that. Lame. It just all sounds lame.

I heave a sigh and push my keyboard away from the edge of the desk, reach for my purse to take out my day planner. It's a mess, sticky notes peppering various pages, the boxes of the days of the month filled with appointment reminders in my untidy handwriting. Trapped between the back cover and the last pages of the planner are fliers, handouts, old business cards, notes on random pieces of paper. I flip open to today, look at what I've written. Just a short staff meeting in the afternoon, so I'll get to go home early today. That's good; I'm not really accomplishing much today anyway. As I flip the planner shut, a few pieces of paper fall out, flutter to the floor. I trash most of them, but the last one isn't paper, it's too stiff. And glossy. It's a photograph. As I turn it over, I'm hit with the most powerful sense of déjà vu.

What's this doing here?

It's a picture of Miley and I, the only non-digital copy I have of a picture of the two of us, the rest are hidden deep in a secret file on my laptop along with other pictures of high school. We're dressed in heels and formal gowns, its junior prom. She's wearing a scarlet red strapless dress, her long wavy chestnut hair flowing down her back. I'm in a spaghetti strapped royal blue gown; hair pulled back, just a few strands hanging down by my face. She's holding me by the waist, my arms is draped around her shoulders.

Miley had gone with Jake Ryan, of course, and they were quite the celebrity couple the whole night as was expected. I went with one of Oliver's friends named Kevin, a guy from the baseball team whose face I don't even remember now. He was nice enough, I suppose, but spent most of the night behind the hotel with several of his buddies passing around a bottle of vodka. Needless to say, he was pretty much absent for the majority of that evening.

I turn the photo over and over in my hands slowly, coming into the memories of that evening. I remember that night well.

--

Prom night. It's at a hotel downtown, and I would be more excited, usually, but for many reasons I feel a little bit numb. The school has catered some bland generic chicken dish and the student body president has given an unmemorable speech that lasts way too long. Finally there is a whine as the speakers turn on and the DJ adjusts his equipment.

"Okay dude and dudettes welcome to Seaview Junior Prom 2009!" the DJ thunders over the speakers. "We're only halfway through this Cinderella night so ladies kick off those heels, grab your princes and let's dance!" A cheer rises from the gathered crowd and the music starts to play.

I sit in my chair, sip fruit punch and try not to watch Jake Ryan and Miley as they move to the beat of the music, one song after another. I try not to cringe when I see him put his hands on Miley's body as he tries to move his hips along with hers. He's not very graceful, very unlike Miley. But like so many of my other classmates, my eyes are drawn to Seaveiw High's power couple. I shouldn't be staring, but I am.

Is it warm in here? I excuse myself to the bathroom.

I find some open sink space in the bathroom; take a paper towel from the holder. I splash a little water on it to dampen it and press it against my flushed cheeks, trying to rid them of their blush. Girls file in and out, going to bathroom, washing hands, fixing makeup and hair. It's noisy, and I had been hoping for some quiet. Finally I stop fiddling, put my hands on the counter and heave a huge sigh.

Almost two years I've kept silent. Two years. Neither of my best friends knows my secret, especially not the one that my secret concerns the most.

I like girls. More specifically, I like Miley. More than a best friend should.

But Miley's not gay. And more than anything, I don't want to lose her as a friend.

So I've kept my mouth shut. For two years. It's agonizing sometimes, at night especially, the loneliness creeps into me. But oddly enough, just being around Miley makes me feel better. She is, after all, my best friend. But Jake Ryan touching her is a little too much to handle.

Minutes pass, but I linger, not wanting to go back outside. But all of a sudden, she bursts through the bathroom door, runs to the side, taps on my shoulder.

"Lilly, are you okay?"

"Um, yeah, sure," I lie as convincingly as possible. "I was just a little warm in there, that's all. You having fun?"

She shrugs, studying my face closely. "Yeah, but I would be having more if someone would stop moping and come out here and dance with me."

I laugh. "Me dance? Crazy girl say what?"

"Just one," she pleads, grabbing my hand and tugging at it insistently. "Just one, I promise."

I barely have time to nod before she drags me out of the bathroom and onto the packed dance floor. It's a fast paced thumping techno song, safe, nice and jumpy. Okay, I can do this. But as soon as the thought passes through my mind the song ends, and slow, seductive, bass-rich hip hop song takes its place. Shit.

"I can let you and Jake take this one," I say quickly and try a desperate retreat, but Miley holds fast.

"No, I'm going to dance with my best friend right now."

And then we're quiet. She puts her hands on my hips, and all I can see is her face, all I can feel is her hands on my body, all I hear is the thumping of the music in the background. Everyone else fades away. I hesitantly put arms around her waist, and Miley pulls us together, our bodies touch and it's all I can to keep breathing. Our hips move to the beat of the music, she presses her forehead to mine. She smells like raspberries. I close my eyes, and dance. Her hands move to the small of my back, and mine go around her neck. I can't believe we're doing this. We've never danced like this before.

When the song ends, just for a moment, neither of us pull away. I enjoy the feeling of her skin against mine for just a little longer, keep my breathing slow and deep to calm the butterflies fluttering in my stomach. Finally, she steps back and looks at me, breaking our contact to my relief. There is something different in her eyes that I haven't seen before, but I'm too busy trying to hide what is behind mine.

"Woo!" A voice sounds from behind us, and I jump back, put more distance between Miley and I. I see Oliver, smiling a great big smile.

"Look at you two gorgeous ladies!" He holds up a digital camera. "Get together; I want to have a picture of you two."

Miley breaks our silence with a laugh, painting a smile on her face. "Okay, doofus." She hesitates a moment, but I sling an arm around her shoulders as nonchalantly as I can.

"Take it already," I say, trying to keep my voice from shaking. "I haven't got all night."

I feel Miley slip an arm around my waist. Oliver lifts the camera.

"Okay, one, two, three!"

--

I sigh. I'm still not getting any work done.

Second day in a row, too. I would be kidding myself I said I didn't know the reason, but that knowledge hasn't seemed to motivate me in any way.

"Bam!"

"Oh shit!" I yelp, flailing my arms and nearly knocking over my coffee cup in the process. I look up at my assailant and groan. "Eric, you're such a jerk."

Eric Chavez sits down next to me, face lit up in a mega-watt smile in satisfaction. Eric has been my friend since I moved to New York; we worked in the same indie-underground club for almost a year and then by a strange coincidence were both brought on to the Rolling Stone staff within months of each other. He works in the photography department. He reminds a lot of Oliver, same dorky personality and shaggy hair. Despite his true dork qualities, he's become a true confidant and friend since I left California behind.

"I am the King!" he raises him arms above his head. "Don't try to deny."

I quickly and quietly slip the picture of Miley and me underneath the keyboard. "And what exactly do you want, Chavez?"

He spins in the chair. "Ooh, touchy, touchy. What crawled up your ass and died? I just came by to chat."

I sigh. "I finally got a draft of this article, but I don't like where it is going. I think I might have to scrap the whole thing and start over."

Eric looks at me carefully, then wags one finger. "Bullshit, Truscott. That's not the reason you're so edgy today."

I shrug, and after a few moments I'm immersed back into my article, critiquing every aspect of it, frowning at what I see. Eric watches me. "Lilly should give Eric her music collection," he taunts in a faux-hypnotic voices and wiggles his fingers close to my face.

"Nice try," I mumble, eyes still fixed on the screen.

"Really, Truscott, what is up with you? You were spacey yesterday and you're even more distracted today. Come on, spill the beans!"

I sigh, tap my fingers against the edge of my keyboard. If I don't tell Eric, who would I tell?

"Well, the thing is," I begin slowly, sitting back in my chair, "I sort of ran into someone I know yesterday."

Eric leans forward, his interest piqued. "Ooh juicy. Someone? Someone you like? Or like an ex-someone?"

I shake my head. "No, no. Not an ex. It's very," I pause, "complicated."

"But there's history?"

I chuckle ironically. "Oh yes. There's most definitely history."

Eric's face is covered in a way too smug Cheshire cat grin, which I choose to ignore for now.

"I get it. Like an almost, then?"

I ponder the thought. "I don't know. We were best friends in high school, but we've been really distant since then." I can see that Eric sees the pain in my face, but he knows better than to mention it. He picks up a rubber band from my desk and stats snapping it into his palm. "How distant are we talking?"

I take a sip of the coffee that's sitting on my desk. "Almost 8 years. And she lives in Los Angeles."

He lets out a low whistle. "Whew. Damn. That is distant." He leans forward once again, his face once again covered by the Cheshire cat grin that I'm starting to get really annoyed by. "Who is she?"

"Oh, no, no, no, no, no. I am so not going there," I protest, but Eric insists.

"Oh, come on, Truscott. I've gone days without any interesting news. I've got to have something to take the edge off of my pathetic social life." He tries giving me a puppy dog face that is very reminiscent of Oliver. "Please."

I sigh deeply and reach for the photograph. "Promise not to freak out?"

Impatiently he snatches the picture from me. "Give me a break, why in the hell would I fre….HOLY SHIT!"

"Shut up!" I hiss, hitting his arm with all the force I can muster. "Keep your damn voice down, Chavez."

He opens and closes his mouth a few times, like a fishing gasping out of water, and points at the picture with a shaky finger. "Your best friend was Miley Stewart? The Hannah Montana Miley Stewart?"

"Yes."

"Holy hell! How could you have never told me this?"

I cross my arms. "Because I knew you would react this way."

He shifts his finger so now that it's pointing at me. "If she was Hannah that must mean that you were..."

"Lola Luftnagle, yes."

He laughs, slaps his knee. "Hot damn! I'm friends with a celebrity!"

"Former," I correct, "and you know, for never having liked Hannah Montana you sure do know a lot about her, Eric."

"What! I have a younger sister!"

"Sure. Whatever."

He laughs, and then there is another short silence. I stare at my hands. "I gave her my card. To see if she wanted to talk. She hasn't called."

Eric reaches out and puts a comforting hand on my shoulder. "She'll call, Lilly."

"What if she doesn't?" I whisper, almost afraid of the response.

"But she will. She will," he insists. He hands me back the photography of Miley and I.

Eric really is a good guy. A good friend. He gives my shoulder a quick squeeze and stands up. "I have to get back to photography department or Linda will chase me out with a broom." I nod. He looks at me.

"And hey, Lilly? She'll call, I know she will."

I manage a half smile. "Thanks, Eric."

I sigh; tuck the photo of Miley and I back into my wallet. I look at the jumble of words on my screen, try to read it again, but can't concentrate. Perhaps Eric is right, maybe I am distracted. After all these years seeing Miley brings up all these memories and all these questions that have remained unanswered for all this time. These questions run through my brain endlessly, like a broken record. But for now I have to play the wait game, and so, I've gotten no work done.

Lunch comes and goes with little incident. I eat with Eric and two other friends, Carly from accounting and Ben from the print room. Eric decides to be a gentleman and doesn't tell Carly or Ben about Miley, which I am grateful for. He almost slips one or two times, but it's fortunate that I am within kicking distance, and that I wore my black boots today. In the afternoon I have a staff meeting, it's time for article updates and I'm not ready at all. I lay the best word wizardry I can on my boss Tom, and only barely get away with it. Even my co-workers notice that I'm off. Thankfully, the meeting is relatively short, and as soon as Tom says "okay, that wraps it up" I'm out the door, grab my bag, and hop onto the subway. I need to be away from everyone for a little while. I don't want to answer any questions from anyone today.

The subway is not very crowded because I left work a little early, and get back to my apartment in record time. I've lived here nearly 4 years now, a former artist's loft that I used to share with 4 other roommates. As the roommates moved on, I slowly began making more and more money, so that by the time the last left I had become staff. It was one of the proudest days of my life, when I wrote my first check for the full rent knowing full well that I could afford it. I get off the elevator at the fourth floor and unlock the door.

And immediately collapse on the couch that was a parting gift from my last roommate. 'Take it,' he had said, 'it'll be hard to haul it all the way back to Cedar Rapids.' But after a moment I'm up again, pacing in front of my window, staring out onto the street. Not the best view, but it could be worse. I wish, just for one moment, that I'm back in Miley's house on her porch, smelling the cool Pacific air. I shake my head. I don't get homesick often.

_Rebel, Rebel_

_You've torn your dress_

_Rebel, Rebel_

_Your face is a mess_

_Rebel, Rebel_

My muffled cell phone ringer sounds from my bag, and I spring to retrieve it. I glance at the caller ID, it's a number I don't recognize. A California zip code. My breath hitches, but I flip open the phone.

"Hello?"

I hear a cough, a clearing of the throat. "Hey, ehem, hey Lilly. It's Miley."

I'm smiling from ear to ear. "Miley. Hey."

There is a pregnant pause on the other end of the line. I hold my breath.

"Well, Lilly, hey, it was good seeing you the other day."

I let my breath out in one word. "Yeah."

"I waswonderingifyoumaybewantedtogotodinnerwithmetomorrow."

"What?"

"Would you like to get dinner with me tomorrow?"

I can only smile. I cannot think, I can only smile. And then, finally, I can speak.

"I would love to."

--

Well, whadya think? Leave reviews and the next chapter might be up a little quicker.


	4. Chapter 4

I hate finals, and I hate papers and tests and, well, school in general. But I'm finally done for the summer, and since I've been rather slow on updating this I thought an extra long chapter might be in order. A slight warning before I begin; this chapter contains mentions of underage drinking, which I in no way encourage. So fair warning. Please keep the reviews coming, I love reading every single one of them! They make me feel loved 

So anyways, enough rambling. Onwards!

Disclaimer: I don't.

PS: If there any typos or misspellings, forgive. This was completed at a rather late hour.

--

Falling Slowly: Chapter Four

--

I have nothing to wear.

That's not really true in the literal sense, of course. But still, I have nothing to wear that I like. Why didn't I pack more when I was in LA? I rifle through shirts, pants, blouses, shoes, look for the perfect outfit. Pink tube top. Slutty. Yellow shirt. Canary. White sweater. Grandma. Jeans are too casual, suit pants too business. Crap. Crap. Was I blind when I packed? Did I just throw random things from my closet into my suitcase? I sit down heavily on the bed, and everything bounces.

Today went by at a crawl. It was a long, tough day in the studio, working and reworking, recording and rerecording tracks. Even the usually unflappable Zoë became frazzled by the ballad we're trying to pin down, and by the end of the day everyone's nerves are worn raw, including mine. I finally make it back to the hotel, stomach churning from lack of a good meal today and nerves from thoughts of tonight, and promptly start panicking over my wardrobe. Calm down, baby, my mother would tell me, it takes more than a day for an egg to turn into a cute little chick.

I stand, push all the unacceptable clothes away from my suitcase, and take one more look.

Curled into a neat roll in the corner of my suitcase is my green dress. It was a gift from my father last Christmas, with a flowing skirt and a halter tie top. It's not really that formal, and it's more meant for LA weather obviously, not for chilly March New York weather, but I unroll it, lay it on the bed. Well, why not? I dig some non-descript white flats (not in my right mind would I attempt heels tonight), and set them by the dress. I stand back, look at the outfit. Hair worn down, and a pair of simple hoop earrings, and my long black coat to wear outside in the wind. That'll be fine. Right?

If I don't feel together on the inside, at least I can look that way on the outside.

I take a deep breath, let it out slowly. I can do this. She didn't seem that angry, or that unhappy to see me, and she did agree to come to dinner after all. She will probably have questions. She will have questions, and I can't really say that I blame her, after all that has happened between us.

My clothes, laid out on the bed so neatly, brings up a memory. One I haven't thought about for years.

--

It's my senior year of high school, and I'm performing yet another Hannah Montana concert. I'm finishing "Girl's Night Out" to end my set for the night, and the crowd is as enthusiastic and responsive as ever. With a loud appreciative roar and a few squeals trailing me, I make my way off stage smiling and waving. A successful night.

Dad congratulates me on a good show, gives me a kiss on the head. Tonight is going to be a good night, Lola and Mike are waiting backstage to go with me to one of Tracy's star-studded celebrity parties, and it's rumored that Kelly Clarkson might show up. As I wind through the catacombs of the backstage, I'm surprised at the absence of Lola. She's normally right there, waiting for me. My face squints in a slight frown. Where is she?

I reach my dressing room just moments later, reach for the doorknob to let myself in, but stop short. There are voices. Oliver, Lilly. I press my ear to the door.

Don't listen! That's rude. But my ear remains attached to the door, straining to hear the conversation.

"Oliver, leave it alone."

"But Lilly, how can you just keep that all inside?"

"What do you want me to do, Oliver?"

"Tell her!"

"Oh, perfect idea. Oliver. Hey best friend, I just wanted to tell you that I'm gay and in love with you. Want to go for smoothies?" My breath catches. I can't believe my ears. The blood pounds in my ears, my heart races.

"At least tell her you're gay! She'll understand, she can help you get through this. You guys are best friends."

"Lilly." A pause.

She's crying. Sobbing. I feel a twinge of pain in my chest.

"I can't do it, Oliver. I would lose her. I would lose my best friend. I can't lose her, Ollie. I can't."

Her sobs are muffled suddenly, Oliver must be hugging her.

"Shh. It's gonna be okay, Lils."

I feel like crying myself. After a few more moments of agony, I hear Lilly's voice.

"I'm such a mess." Footsteps.

"Hannah's got to be wrapping it up, I'll go look out while you get dressed."

I hide behind a rack of clothes meant for Hannah's backup dancers until I hear Oliver's footsteps receding down the hallway, my breath short and rushed. It takes a few minutes before I can will myself to walk to my dressing room, half wishing that she'll be there, half wishing she won't. Why is my heart pounding? Why can't my hands stay still? Why do I feel so afraid? I take a couple of deep breaths to calm myself, open the door, heart pounding.

The room is empty.

And on the couch are Lola's clothes; skirt, shirt, wig, all neatly laid out, unworn. I take the wig in my hands, hold it reverently. There's a note pinned to it.

_Don't feel well. Gone home. _

_Talk to you Monday, _

_Lilly._

I open my hands, and the wig falls on the floor in a soft heap, the note fluttering after it. There's a sharp, intense pain in my chest, followed by the most horrible sinking feeling.

--

For weeks, I wouldn't talk to her. We hung out at school, of course, but every time we were alone together all I could hear echoing in my head was "in love with you". Over and over again. I would panic, clam up. I was afraid of what I would say, how I would react. Why hadn't she told me? Did she not trust me enough?

Why did my senses begin to buzz whenever I was around her? Was it the awkwardness? Never before had I been so out of whack around anyone, not even Jake Ryan. It was wonderful, it was confusing, it was terrifying all at the same time. I didn't know what to do.

Things got better as the weeks went on, but nevertheless I was distant. It hurt her, I knew that, but I was too wrapped up in my own questions. It was selfish, I know that.

I wash my face quickly, dress, and do my makeup and hair. Maybe now, after all these years I can offer her some answers. Maybe I will stop being a coward and face up to my past. I know I should.

I take a deep breath, examine myself in the mirror. Showtime.

I make my way down to the lobby, down the shined brass and glass of the elevators and over the polished marble floors. Even by New York standards the hotel is nice; complete with a door dressed in white gloves and a top hat. I have him call a cab for me so I won't have to stand in the blustery wind. It's gray outside, and the wind whips down the streets, carrying newspapers and swaying signs, forcing even the toughest New Yorkers to turn up their collars and lean forward into it. So much for the nice day. I suddenly feel very glad I haven't worn my heels.

The doorman waves from outside, and the trademark New York Taxi screeches up to the curb. I gather my thoughts and head out to brave the weather.

It takes longer than I expected to get to the restaurant, but then again, I never really realized that the address Lilly gave me was a Brooklyn address. As we cross the bridge, I realize that I've never really seen this part of New York, never really bothered to step outside my Manhattan comfort zone. The architecture is different, it's like being in an entirely different city. Suddenly, the cab comes to a halt.

"We are here, miss. Thank you" the cabbie says in a thick accent that I can't identify. I pay the man and add a tip, climb out of the cab, looking for the sign of the restaurant.

And there it is. Mario's. I half expected some very fancy, expensive, exclusive place, but it's smaller, tucked in between a bakery and a small grocery store. I panic for a moment, wonder if I'm overdressed, but a little old couple emerges in their Sunday best and I am calmed. I take a deep breath, let it out slowly.

Inside, the lighting is low, candle-lit. Almost romantic. I feel a blush rise to my cheeks at that thought, but quickly push it down. And then I see her, sitting quietly at a corner table. Our eyes meet, and she smiles.

"Hey, Miles, I was beginning to worry" she says smoothly as she stands to greet me.

She looks so gorgeous that I have to stop for a moment and admire. She's wearing a short black dress that shows off her gorgeous athletic legs and shoulders, pale skin. She's wearing her hair down tonight, although I can now see that it is visibly shorter than the last time I saw her. Her hands twitch nervously as I stare like an idiot.

"Sorry," I say softly, then louder, "sorry. You know me, always fashionably late."

She continues to smile her wide Lilly smile, and I can't help but grin like a fool in return.

"Well, come on," she says as we sit at the table, "I ordered a bottle of Chianti if that's okay. Do you drink?"

I laugh instinctively. "Yeah. It seems I haven't learned my lessons after all those times in college and that one time in high school."

As soon as the words leave my mouth I feel panic rise in my throat.

That night.

The night that it all really began. The night that everything changed. I look at her face, expecting to see pain, or anger. But her expression is mysteriously blank, unreadable and mysterious. There are a few awkward moments, then Lilly clears her throat.

"Okay, that would be a yes, then" she pours a glass of the Chianti.

--

We chat after we order (she orders Chicken Parmesan, I order Spaghetti Bolognese) we sip our wine, delicately eat our Caesar salads and watch each other. Her eyes are unreadable, carefully guarded, trying to read mine. It's light talk, about the weather, I tell her about work, she tells me about hers.

"I like this place. Is this where you take all your ladies?" It's awful of me, to be flirting like this, but nonetheless I watch her cheeks intently, seeing if a blush adorns them. I don't see one, though, and feel disappointed…but ahh. There it is. It is slight, but it is there. Some things don't change. She recovers quickly and laughs jovially.

"No. But this is my favorite place, even if I'm eating alone. It's really quiet and comfortable, you can kind of disappear here for hours just watching New York walk by."

"You know, there was a time when both of us were only interested in going out, being seen," my tone is teasing but the words are true.

"Yes, well" Lilly pauses to take another sip of the Chianti, "things have certainly changed, haven't they?"

They certainly have. I can't get over how mature she is, how sophisticated. The last time I saw Lilly she was giggly Lilly, mischievous Lilly, carefree Lilly, unsure Lilly. Now, she's a success on her own terms. I can't get over it. She even looks different with her shorter hair. I'm staring at her unabashedly, and if it bothers her it doesn't show on her face at all.

"And what about you?" Her voice breaks my reverie. "Are you enjoying the quiet life?"

"Yes, for the most part. I miss the excitement of concerts sometimes, but being able to walk in the street without a wig on is a pretty good trade off. And I've found ways to fill my time."

She smiles. "Right, big time producer now. I never really took you for a business person, Miley. What gives?"

She's joking, and it feels good. Just like old days. Back when we could talk and laugh and make fun of each other and it was all okay.

"Like you said, Lils, things change. How is work for you?" I change the subject quickly; nervously try to keep the conversation going. As long as we're talking like this, things should be fine.

Damn it, Stewart. My brow furrows in disappointment at myself. Even now, after all these years, you still avoid the hard questions. Questions you know the answers to! What in the hell is wrong with you?

Lilly looks slightly perplexed at my facial expression, but says, "oh, it's fine. I've been stuck in the new acts section for awhile now, that's where we look for upcoming artists and write a short column exposing them to the limelight, so to speak. Eventually I want to move to featured; I'd be a full-fledged journalist then. I'd get to travel, see bands perform in London and things like that."

Her eyes sparkle. She's excited, she loves her work. And just now, I can see a little bit of the old Lilly peeking through. "Wouldn't it be awesome to interview Lightspeed Champion in London, or the Shout Out Louds in Stockholm, or Air in Paris?"

"I'm sure it would be." I don't really have the heart to tell her I have no idea who she's talking about. Lilly was always more Indie, more Alternative, more Electronica, more Punk and underground than I was when it came to music tastes.

She waves a hand. "But you know all about traveling. Do you still do a lot of traveling?"

I nod while I finish chewing my last bite of salad. "Mmhm. LA, Seattle, Nashville, Toronto, New York, wherever they send me."

When she next speaks, her eyes are serious. "Miley, all these years, all these times you came to New York. You never called, never wrote. Never answered any of my letters. Why?"

"Because I'm a coward." The words flow out of my mouth, despite the hang-ups, like a dam bursting. "Because I couldn't really deal with what happened between us and what it meant. I was scared of you, scared of me, scared of what everyone else would think of me. I was so scared of losing you, and ended up doing it anyway."

Her face is somber as she nods, almost understandingly. I spread my hands in front of me pleadingly.

"And I'm sorry, Lilly. I really am. And I know i was the worst best friend in the entire world and an overall horrible person for what I did, but I really am sorry." I feel like crying, my voice is strained to it's breaking point. I look for a sign, a glimmer, a glance, anything in her face that will tell me something about what she is thinking.

Seconds tick by. "Well," she finally says, "you're here now. It's good to have my friend back." And she smiles just a tiny little smile.

Even though the dinner is wonderful, the food turns to ashes in my mouth as we finish the dinner. We still talk, a little more restrained than before, but we talk. I feel half relieved, half disappointed. I pay the bill, and soon we find ourselves saying goodbye on the sidewalk.

"It was really good to see you," she says politely, giving me a delicate hug. But when she tries to pull away, I hold her close. i feel this might be the last time I will get to.

"Thank you for being patient with me," I whisper, "and I hope that we can be friends now."

I move forward to kiss her cheek, but her face moves slightly in confusion, and I catch the corner of her mouth by accident. The intimate contact sends unidentified shivers through my body. She pulls away.

"Right," she sounds a bit shaken up. "I'd love to have my friend back."

In the cab back to the hotel, I mull the evening's events over in my head. That could have gone better, but it certainly could have gone worse. I miss her already, I miss her laugh. I miss her touch. I've missed it all this time, but at the heart of it, I just want to make things right between us.

But why did I have to bring up that night?

The night after graduation, one of our classmates named Lauren threw an end of the year party at her house down the block from me. Her usually absent parents had gone out of town as soon as we walked off the stage, so Lauren wanted our senior year to go out with a big bang.

Originally, I didn't want to go. The only thought in my head was that Lilly might be there, and if there was alcohol I wasn't sure that I could keep my mouth shut. It was Jackson that eventually talked me into going with some long spiel about the glories of youth and missed opportunities and such. I agreed to go just to get him to shut up, but really I wanted to confront Lilly. The tension had become unbearable, so that now we were barely speaking to one another. No more movie nights, no more trips to the beach, no more Hannah parties. She would call, and I, like the coward I am, wouldn't answer. When I saw her at school, she would look at me with these pleading eyes that broke my heart. But every time I opened my mouth in front of her, nothing came out.

Jackson had only wanted to help, when he told me to go. But it set in motion something that I can never take back.

--

I arrive at the door an hour or so into the party, wearing a flowing white skirt and a sleeveless green top. Lauren's house is even bigger than mine, her father is a very important tax attorney and her mother an executive at a major fashion corporation. I approach the front door tentatively, stand trying to gather my nerves for a moment. Finally, I hear the din of the party drift through the thick wood of the door and reach out one hand to knock. The door moves under my touch, and I push it open and stealthily creep in.

It's loud, very loud, talking and shouting and toneless singing. The house is filled, many are people I know, some are people I don't. I ignore the glares from Amber and Ashley and take a look around.

"Miley?" Lauren emerges from the crowd. "Hey, Miley! You actually came."

"Yeah," I say, nervously fiddling with the strap of my purse. "I came."

She smiles brightly. "Good. Welcome then! All the drinks are in the kitchen," she points towards what is obviously the kitchen. "I've got to say hi to more people, now, but please get a drink and make yourself at home!"

"Okay," I respond as the hostess wanders over to another newcomer.

It's loud, conversations swirling all around, shouting and laughing and talking. I suddenly wish that it were Hannah Montana that had shown up to this party, confident and sexy and outgoing and spontaneous, unlike her meek and mild alter ego. This night, I remind myself, is about fun. It's about forgetting the past and looking towards the future. With that, I make my way into the kitchen, where boys are lounging around the island drinking beer, watching some show on the television in the kitchen.

"Happy graduation!" a boy thrusts a red plastic cup in front of me. "Welcome to the party!"

I take the cup, sniff it. "What is it?"

"Trashcan punch. Fruit punch and vodka." I sip it. It tastes like cough syrup, but I fake a yum face for my impromptu bartender. "Thanks".

He gives me the thumbs up and races over to a group of girls to fetch them their drinks. I retreat from the kitchen and make my way into the living room. It's loud, there are people everywhere. What the hell am I doing here? I don't know.

I take another sip of my drink. It's very fruity, with the kick of the alcohol hitting after a few seconds. I'm not used the sharpness of the vodka, and I fight back the urge to distort my face at the aftertaste. This is stronger than I imagined. I make a mental note to be careful how much I consume tonight.

I weave my way through the crowd nervously; try not to make eye contact as I make my way to the door. There are only a few people on the patio, and it looks much quieter than the roar inside the house. I ignore the few confused glances I get from my incredulous classmates. Is that Miley Stewart? What is she doing here? I didn't know that she partied.

Then, a familiar face. It's Oliver, talking to a few girls from school, standing next to a potted plant by the sliding glass door. I don't want him to see me. I alter my path quickly, point my feet towards the kitchen, but he spots me.

"Miley!" I pretend not to hear. "Miley!"

Shit. I walk over to my dark haired friend, take a deep breath and fake a smile. "Hi, Oliver. How's it going?"

"What are you doing here? I thought you didn't go to parties," I see Sarah, from our class, standing in very close proximity to Oliver. So, she does still like him. Oliver turns to her.

"I could say the same thing," he exclaims.

She raises her plastic cup. "I will be sure that all aluminum, plastic, and glass containers are properly recycled!" There's the Sarah we all know.

"I thought you didn't drink!" Oliver says to me, his features are covered with a look of surprise, bordering on shock.

I muster some fake enthusiasm in the presence of my audience. A little bit of Hannah. "Well, you know what they say. When in Rome!" I raise my plastic cup. The girls shout a few "yeahs" and "ow ows" in response and raise their glasses in a toast. I copy them in tilting my head back to drink, but I only let a bit actually pass my lips.

"Shit," one of the girls says. "I'm out." She elbows Sarah and the other girl. "Let's get some more." Sarah reluctantly peels herself away from Oliver's side and follows the other two girls into the kitchen. He watches her go.

I watch him, wait a moment. "So. You and Sarah?"

He blushes right on cue, and I can't help but smile a little. I nudge him, and he smiles. "I don't know. Maybe."

Oliver raises his beer can to his lips, gulping awkwardly. He makes a face.

"Dude, this is going to take some getting used to," he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.

We stand silently for a few minutes, survey the crowds. Some people I know, some I don't. There is laughing, talking, people moving about, some steadily, some not. I see two people from my junior physics class making out by the staircase as people pass by oblivious. This is so unlike a Hannah party, none of the glamour or glitz, no paparazzi or fake smiles, just a normal high school party. The thought of this cheers me slightly, but nonetheless I am still dorky, awkward, uncomfortable Miley. I continue to down my drink, each sip becomes a little easier, and soon I don't have any left. That was fast. Too fast. My face feels a little flushed all of a sudden and the three girls return with new cups. Sarah holds one out for me, which I shouldn't take, but do anyway. Now it's just like drinking fruit punch. I take a big gulp, suddenly feeling very thirsty.

"Whoa, tiger," I hear Oliver say. "Take it easy, there."

"I'm good," I tell him. "I'm fine. No worries."

Sarah and Oliver chat some more, and the other two girls wander off. I find myself thinking of her. Would she be here? Why wouldn't she, if Oliver is here? They are best friends, after all. I'm supposed to be forgetting her tonight, that's what the alcohol is for, but all I can see in my mind's eye is her smiling face, bright eyes and golden blonde hair. I take another drink, slower this time. Shit.

Is she here, or not? I don't want to ask Oliver, but my mouth disobeys my head. "Is Lily here?"

He stares at me, curiously. "Yeah, my cousin drove us here. What's up with you two? I haven't seen you talking in weeks. Are you fighting and no one told me?"

I sigh. "No, I don't think we're fighting. Things are just," I search for the right word. It takes me a minute, my brain is a little bit fuzzy. "A little uncomfortable right now. I don't know exactly how to deal with it."

Oliver's eyes suddenly turn in the direction of the living room. I turn to look. People are moving couches and tables to create a space, and then I hear loud thumping music pour out of the stereo system by the television, a heavy danceable hip-hop beat. A cheer goes up from the partiers.

Sarah squeals, grabs Oliver's hand. "Ollie, come and dance with me!" She doesn't wait for a response and drags him in the direction of the other dancers.

I watch the dancing for a while, but the music is loud and begins to give me a headache after 5 or 6 songs. A few guys and even a girl or two try to get me out on the dance floor, but I resist. I'm not that far gone. To avoid any more attention, I walk towards what I think to be the back yard, weaving through grinding dancing couples and stumbling past the line squeezed into the hallway waiting for the bathroom. I finally make my way to a door, push my way outside into the cool Pacific night air. There are stairs leading down to the vast back yards stretched out in front of me.

And there, sitting at the bottom of them, is Lilly.

For a moment I'm not sure what I want to do. She's right there. I wanted to talk to her, right? All these things to say, right? Then why can't I seem to move my feet, or even breathe?

And just before I turn to go back inside, the door slams behind me, and I jump, and so does she. She starts, turns, and sees me. Shit. Her eyes are wide and unreadable.

"Hi," she finally says after a long moment.

"Hi," I reply, make my way down the stairs until I'm standing on the step above where she's sitting.

Now she's looking at the ground, cup held out in front of her. "I didn't expect you to be here." Look at me, Lily.

Look at me. Please, Lilly.

"Yeah," I reply, sitting down on the steps next to her, close, but not close enough to touch. Nonetheless I feel her presence wash over me. It's twice as bad now as before, enhanced by the alcohol. My entire body feels like its buzzing.

"Yeah, Jackson talked me into it. I didn't think you'd be here either." I study her profile. Still, she refuses to look at me. A moment passes, and Lilly takes another long pull of the trashcan punch. Look at me, I silently plead.

"So," she starts, voice unsteady. Or is that my imagination? "You want to tell me why things are so weird between us right now? I thought we were best friends."

I'm caught off guard by her forwardness, and it takes me a second to recover. "Um, um, I don't know." Smooth, Stewart. Very eloquent. Of course I know.

"Sure you do. You know what exactly I'm talking about. Ever since that night after the Hannah concert you've been avoiding me and I don't understand why. Friends are supposed to be there for each other, no matter what the circumstances are or how awkward things are. I'm going through this tough time and my own best friend isn't even around to help me through it."

She's crying now, big tears running down her smooth cheeks and I feel like crying too, only I'm too paralyzed by her words. "I'm sorry, Lilly" I say softly. "I'm sorry. I've been selfish lately because I've been wrapped up in my own issues. I didn't want to abandon you, I just didn't know what to do." Why am I saying this?

But she still won't look at me. "I'm sorry for freaking out, Miles. I've just missed you. And missing you bothers me because," her breath hitches. "I've been missing you more than a best friend should."

What?! My eyes widen, my heart pounds wildly within my chest. I scarcely know what I'm about. The glances and touches, the secret confession to Oliver. Now, she's telling me. The words make it real, tangible.

"Lilly" I breathe, throatily. "Look at me."

And finally, she lifts her beautiful blue eyes to meet mine, filled with tears and pain. I take her head in my hands.

"I'm sorry, Lilly. I'm so sorry. I love you so much, but I couldn't stand losing you." Now I'm crying, and I don't care to stop the tears.

And then, I place my lips on hers. Oh.

Oh, my God.

My head is swimming, thoughts are swirling but all I can focus on is the lightning flashing in my body and the sensation of our touching lips. Is this actually happening? My hands are still on her cheeks, wet from her tears.

Then, as soon as it started, the moment is broken by the slamming of the back door and a long, piercing wail.

"COPS!"

--

"Miss, we're here."

It's going to be a long, lonely night. I place one finger on the corner of my cheek.


	5. Chapter 5

So this part is crap. I'm not happy with it in the slightest. I seem to be going though the most horrible writer's block, so please bear with me. I had to just grind this one out. So please be patient, let me know if you're still reading.

--

I like the gym.

In my years in this city I've grown to love to the energy and noises of New York, but when I need a moment of silence, an hour or two of alone time, I go the gym. At the gym you're surrounded by people who are also lost in their own worlds, working out frustrations and keeping fit on the various forms of workout equipment. They don't bother you, don't nag you. I can put in my headphones, turn on my IPod, become lost in my playlist, and just let my frustrations go. In an odd way, it helps me clear my head and find a moment of peace on hard days.

And, God, today I most certainly could use that.

After last night's (Date? Outing?) dinner with Miley, I can't keep anything in my head straight. After all these years I thought I had healed from the heartbreak she had caused me, but I spend one night at a dinner table with her and one hug, and all of a sudden I feel like that naïve teenage girl once again. The dinner actually wasn't too bad, we talked like old friends should, joking and playing around with each other just like the good old days. Sure, there were moments when we both felt we were walking on egg shells, but that was okay, because we still kept talking.

But at the end of the night, the whole thing almost came crashing down, this thin floor that we were beginning to build underneath us. She leaned in, tried to kiss me on the cheek like friends do, and I like the idiot I am turned my head so that she caught the corner of my mouth with her lips. The intimate contact was shocking, and Miley scampered looking shell-shocked to a cab while I stood on the sidewalk dumbfounded. Sure, you're over her Truscott. Sure you are.

I go through the next day in a haze, replaying every single exchange, every single touch in my head over and over again. Work drags by, there are no meetings and all I really do is turn in my article (which is passable, but not my best work) and spend the rest of the day dodging Eric's questions.

So today, I really need a workout. The gym is pretty crowded after work hours, filled with doctors, bankers, lawyers, waiters, nurses, and others who just finished their days like me, but I find an open treadmill near the back. For some insane reason, I like running. It's a reminder of my former days of sports, soccer, and basketball, and the adrenaline really helps clear the head, or help me feel better after a shitty day. Or at least, that's what I'm hoping.

I start up the treadmill at a low speed, walking at first to stretch out my leg muscles. After working out the kinks in my legs that were formed by sitting at a desk all day, I reach out for the control panel, increasing the tempo to a quick jog, enjoy the feeling of my heart speeding up in my chest as the adrenaline begins to pump throughout my body.

God, what Miley did to me. Still does to me. There's no lying about it, I'm too old for that now, that all the other women I've dated have faded in comparison to the memory that is Miley. Last night she slipped and mentioned the night all the feelings that had bubbling under the surface all those years burst their way to the surface. I reach out and increase the speed on the treadmill.

And last night, after not seeing or talking to Miley Stewart for years, she touched me, kissed me on the cheek. And I couldn't react, wouldn't or couldn't let my poker face fall. A warmth spreads in my chest from the memory of her skin against mine. I increase the speed yet again.

My legs move in a quick rhythm underneath me, arms pump along with them. My breathing is rapid, my lungs start heaving, but I keep moving, keep running. My legs are pistons, I am a machine, I can keep it together no matter what. I can keep my cool, hide the pain her actions cause me to this day. I am untouchable.

But why can't I get that night out of my head? The night of Lauren's graduation party. After years of replaying that night in my head, the memories had laid dormant for a few years, only now to be awakened even more powerful than before.

--

"COPS!"

Miley and I are apart in an instant, and we stand, looking at a pair of boys sprinting down the stairs towards, then past us. I am frozen to my spot in panic.

"What?!" Miley shrieks, and then I hear the bleep of a car siren, and screams from inside the house.

Shit. I can't seem to move, my limbs frozen in their place. I try to will them to move, but I am so shocked by the kiss before and the scene lying out before me that I can't seem to find my head.

Shake it out, Truscott. I grab her hand and hold it firmly.

"Miley, come on, let's get out of here!" I look at our clasped hands for a mere moment and we jolt to life as I begin to drag her through the back yard, past the enormous pool, the hot tub house, over the finely manicured lawn. She moves unsteadily, partly from her heels, partly from the effects of the drinking I'm sure. But I'm not exactly able to walk the straight line either, and at the thought I panic and move faster.

We reach a low white picket fence. Beyond it is a sandy trail down a slope covered in shrubs and grasses, and beyond that, the stretch of a flat sandy beach and the ocean. I stop at the fence. My hand suddenly feels empty, Miley has let go of it.

"Come on," I hiss. I still hear the whine of sirens, and the shouting is louder, closer now. I take a step back, run at the fence and clear it in one hop, placing one hand on the painted wood and swinging my body over easily. I look back at Miley expectantly. She blinks.

"Come on," I say again, louder this time, from the other side. She shuffles her feet, she doesn't trust her own athletic prowess but awkwardly manages to tumble over without any major injuries.

I am already halfway down the path, and I can hear her stumble awkwardly after me, the sharp grass along the slope stinging and scratching at my bare calves. I barely notice this, I just move faster. Once on the beach, we both begin running at full speed. A short glance backwards and I can see the glow of red and blue flashing lights from Lauren's house. Oh shit. I briefly think of Oliver and Sarah, hope that they made it out of the house safely.

After a few more minutes, my lungs are gasping and begging for oxygen, my legs feel like rubber as they try to move my body forward. The sand is damp, makes running difficult, makes my feet cold. Finally, once I am out of sight of Lauren's house, I stop.

"Lily!" I hear Miley croak. "Lily!"

I stop, try to get my bearings, but my head is swirling. I can't seem to wrap my head around what has happened to me tonight. I was chased by the police at a party where there were minors drinking alcohol, and I could have been arrested. And I just kissed my best friend. I just kissed a girl.

I just kissed Miley.

"Lilly," she runs up to my side, still panting from our run. "Look, there's my house!"

Sure enough, in the distance is the outline of the Stewart Mansion, visible thanks to the quickly fading moonlight. She walks forward, but I stay. The wind is picking up, and Miley checks the sky. "Lilly, it's going to rain. Please, come on."

I stand, still panting slightly, overcome with that strange sensation again, the one I'd tried to ignore all this time, feelings bubbling to the surface that I was certain that I'd never show her. My brain is screaming at me to be quiet, to just keep moving my feet, but I feel my mouth open.

"Miley, I need to do something. Just let me do it, and we don't ever have to talk about it again." What am I saying? What am I doing? My head is still buzzing from the trashcan punch, and she looks nervous. I don't stop.

As I reach her I wrap an arm around her waist and back, pull our bodies together roughly, stomach to stomach, breast to breast. Her breath smells like fruit punch, her hair like raspberries, and I can't place the perfume. I stare at her lips, her breathing is shallow and rushed, but then again, so is mine.

And, then, I kiss her. Just like I've imagined it in my dreams. Her lips are soft and meet mine tentatively, and I expect her to push me away, to say no, but her lips rest against mine. Then press, and move. Oh my. She's kissing me back. We work our mouths against one another's slowly at first, then wildly, as if our time is running away from us. When we're no longer able to breathe, I break the kiss, and stand back.

"I just wanted to know what it felt like." Christ, what am I saying? She looks at me with wide eyes, she opens her mouth.

And then the heavens open up onto us.

Now it's her turn to pull me, and we slowly make our way up to Miley's house as raindrops drop onto the sand, darkening it, a few lonely claps of thunder boom overhead and lightning lights up the twilight horizon. We thunder up the deck steps, across the back porch and into the house.

The house is dark and silent as we creep in the back door. I stand in the living room, shivering from the force of the wind and the wet that covers my body. I stare at Miley, beautiful Miley, in her white skirt and tight green top, wet hair clinging to her face. I shouldn't be here. I don't trust myself; don't trust what my mouth might say.

She walks towards me, stops a good distance away. "Let's go to my room, I can get you some dry clothes."

I follow her up the stairs, keep well behind and make a point not to stare at her ass as we ascend the steps. Instead I look at my Converse, sopping wet, squishing with every movement. My shirt clings to my skin, only my beanie protected the top of my head. I want to take it off, but don't. I enter Miley's room several seconds after she does, and she's already rummaging in the Hannah closet, tossing out pajama pants, tee shirts, and camis.

"Maybe I should just go," I say, wrapping my arms around my chilled body.

"It's pouring outside, we've been drinking, and you don't have a car. At least stay here until the storm blows over, I'm sure that your Mom would be okay with it," she answers from the closet. Her tone is hard to read. I don't reply that Mom thinks I'm at Sarah's house.

"Dad's camping with Uncle Earl and the rest of the family that came into town, he won't be back until tomorrow and Jackson's already back at college," she emerges from the closet, offers a sweatshirt and pajama pants to me. I reach out to take the clothing, and our hands touch, just slightly. The skin to skin contact sends shivers down my spine and electricity through my body. I retract my hand, and the clothes fall to the floor in a soundless heap. She's looking at me, with this odd look, as if she's just processing all that's happened tonight. There's a long, long pause, with us just standing, so far apart, the silence enveloping us both.

Then, she speaks.

"What just happened between?" she says. "I mean, at the party, and then the beach. What's going on, Lilly? What are we doing?"

I don't answer; I stand dumb next to the Hannah closet. I love you, Miley. I'm too afraid to say it.

"Because I've never done anything like that," her voice is thick, breaks every so often, "and I'm scared because, because …."

"Because what?" I ask softly, heart thumping in anticipation.

"Because I wanted it."

My breathing quickens, my heart skips a beat and I feel that familiar tug behind my navel. This is bad. Very bad. The words rise up like bile in my throat, and I fight to keep them down, but one more look into Miley's eyes and I know I can't hold back any longer.

"Miley," I say softly, hug my arms around myself to keep some of my body heat. "I need to say something."

She's look at me with those wide, vulnerable eyes, and my heart breaks a little. "Lilly…"

I have to say this. "I know you don't want to hear this, and this is going to change everything, but I need to say it. I love you. I've been falling in love with you for 4 years."

She's crying, but somehow I can't find tears. I must have cried them all already.

"I'm sorry," I say. "I've ruined everything."

And then she steps forward and kisses me. I'm probably still a little bit drunk, but that doesn't matter. The sensation of her lips on mine feels even better than before, warm and soft and wet, and I'm undone. I feel her tear my beanie off my head and bury her hands in my hair, massaging my head slowly, and dear God does it feel wonderful. I finally react, moving my lips against hers and deepening the kiss, place my hands on her lower back and pull our bodies together. Oh, what are we doing? Will we regret this in the morning? Right now, I don't care.

I can't think. I can only feel. Feel the energy between us, feel our shivering bodies pressed up against one another's as we desperately cling to each other. And she doesn't push me away.

I feel her tongue dart out and touch my lips just slightly. My mouth opens right on cue, and our tongues intertwine in the warm crevasse that is my mouth. She pulls away for air, and I look into her eyes, those beautiful deep brown eyes and I am home. They are filled with passion, a passion that I have never seen from her before.

We gasp, kiss again. My lips move to her neck hungrily, I want to touch her, feel every single part of her. Her throat emits a low, guttural moan as I kiss the soft skin, and it creates a thrill in me that I don't bother to suppress or control. Her arms wrap themselves around me once again, and my hands grab her hips and we pull each other even closer.

Our mouths meet once again as Miley hands wander lower down my back, finding the edge of my shirt and moving under it. I feel her hands on the bare skin of my back and I am nearly undone. Our mouths disconnect as I gasp loudly from the sensation. She looks at me. There's no smile, no frown adorning her features, only this curious mix of fear and desire. She doesn't speak, either, only pushes me to her bed, where we collapse in a tangle of limbs and lips.

We sit here, stark naked before each other, gazing expectedly at one another with passion and fear and vulnerability; and I don't believe I've ever seen anything so beautiful in my whole life. My hand reaches up and touches her face, and she leans into it and sighs.

"Miley, I…" my words are silenced by a quick motion of Miley's hand covering my mouth.

"Don't say anything," she says quietly, then removes her hand. "Just don't talk, okay?"

Slowly, piece by piece, we remove our clothing. Shirts first, then her skirt, my Capri's. My bra, underwear are black, hers are white. She's so beautiful. She trembles as she unhooks my bra, and then her own, and I begin to tremble too. We work off our underwear; eyes locked, and face each other, standing on our knees. I feel vulnerable, scared. The cool air kisses my bare skin, I watch Miley's chest move up and down from labored breathing. She's so beautiful that I feel like crying. But I don't. Instead, I take her hands in mine.

I nod. She nods. And we lay down on the bed, gazes locked. And our hands reach towards each other, gathering each other out of the darkness. We're inexperienced, fumble at first, but our touches are filled with instinct and it doesn't take long for awkward touches to produce pleasures that I haven't felt before. I feel like we're enveloped in an intense white light, isolated and protected from the outside world. I'm here with Miley, and in these moments not a thing in the world matters.

She comes with her eyes closed, fingernails digging into my back and then I soon after, gasping her name as I'm pushed over the edge.

We collapse onto one another, our naked bodies bathed in the twilight. As we lie next to each other, I feel tears forming at the corners of my eyes. Tomorrow, we will have to deal with what we've just done. Tomorrow will be the consequences. But at this moment, I'm lying next to Miley in all her beauty and it feels like a dream is coming true. This moment, right now, everything is perfect.

But now, everything changes.

--

"Shit!"

My reverie ends suddenly as my pace hiccups, my feet catch on the rubber matting of the treadmill, and I fall most ungracefully to my knees. For a moment, I sit in shock. Did I really just do that?

The treadmill has shut off, it's built in safety precautions going to good use, and I shift my legs from underneath me as carefully as I can. My right leg aches from where I've fallen on it, and I touch it tenderly. There will be a huge bruise there tomorrow.

"Oh my God, are you okay miss?" Some beefy gym employee has rushed over and hovers over me worriedly.

I am still gasping from the run, face red from embarrassment and exercise. I take a quick look at the time and distance on the control board. Too long. I ran too long, too fast. The employee reaches out and grabs me, helping me most unceremoniously to my feet as concerned lookers-on watch from a distance.

"Yeah," I say once some of my breath returns to me. "I just got the wind knocked out of me."

"Do you want any ice, miss? At least sit down so we can make sure that you're alright."

I put a little weight on my right leg, then take a few easy steps off of the treadmill and back onto solid ground. It's painful, but not broken. It will be tender for a few days at the most. I pull my arm gently free from the employee's grasp and offer him a rueful smile.

"Thanks, I'm good though."

"Are you sure? I can walk you to the front to get a cab if you don't feel like walking."

I shake my head. I'm embarrassed enough already. "No, I'm fine."

I limp my way to the locker room, eyes, glued to the floor and cheeks flushed partially from the run and partially from my complete and utterly humiliation. Once safe inside the locker room, I hobble my way over to a shower stall.

It would probably make more sense that after my little trip down memory lane that I take a cold shower, but I turn the knob almost all the way to the left, hold my hand under the water until it turns from cool to lukewarm to nearly scalding before I step in. I've always liked hot showers.

I let the hot spray soak my hair and drip down my body before I begin going through the regular motions of washing my hair and body. The warmth of the water on my hurt leg helps the pain a bit, but I can still see a massive purplish red bruise beginning to form on it.

So the workout didn't help. At all. It actually made things worse, which I thought couldn't ever happen. And it's all because of Miley, and because I can't seem to act like anything besides a nervous teenager when I am around her.

I promised myself that I would leave all the questions from our last days together behind me and forget it. That didn't happen. All these questions that were on my mind are obviously still there, weighing me down with a gray funk that I can't shake free of. I feel frustrated. I feel angry. I feel sad. I didn't say all the things I wanted to say to Miley, didn't ask the questions I truly wanted answered.

I end my shower and dress quickly in shorts and a tank top, throw a heavy sweatshirt on top to combat the cold weather. Stop thinking about all this, I try to tell myself, and run outside to hail a cab.

The cab whizzes by buildings, down streets. Past restaurants, hotels, offices, stores. I can't get her out of my head. The sound of her voice, the feel of her lips on my skin. The warmth of her body from the hug.

I could call her tomorrow. Ask her out for a drink. I could actually try to be an adult about this, instead of a child. It was obvious that she was ready and willing to answer my questions, ready to talk about what happened between us, and it was true that I wanted nothing more than just those answers.

Who am I kidding? I'm scared. But Miley is here, after all these years, and she wants to see me. Wants to touch me, hug me. What does it all mean?

An emotion seizes me, a quickening, and a sudden need overtakes me. The need to see her, to hear her voice, her answers, so that I can finally put all the pieces to the puzzle together. I don't want to wait until tomorrow to call her. My hand shoots out, knocks urgently on the plastic barrier between the cabbie and the passenger backseat.

"Yes ma'am?"

"Turn around."

--

Of course Miley would stay at the Four Seasons. Only the best for the former Hannah Montana. As Lola and Hannah, we would go to parties at the most expensive hotels, eat at the fanciest restaurants, shop at the trendiest stores.

But none of that seems to matter now. I realize now that I never missed the clothes, or the parties, or the celebrity friends. I missed Miley. I missed her smile, her laugh, her hugs. My romantic feelings for her killed our friendship, changed it and mangled it beyond all recognition. I feel a twinge of guilt and pain within my chest.

I feel a little out of place, walking through the posh lobby and riding up the fancy polished elevator. With Miley, though, I always felt like I was a little out of my league.

Tenth floor. The bell dings, and I step out. I walk down the hallway, almost in a haze.

This is the one. I don't hesitate at all. I've come too far to second guess this now. I knock, one, twice, three times loudly, then stand back and wait.

A few moments pass. And then a few more.

Finally, a sound. The clicking of the lock, then the door handle. The door swings open, and there she is.

"Miley, can we talk?"

She looks surprised, but not shocked to see me. And after a few seconds (that seem like a lifetime), she finally pulls the door open.

"Please come in."

--

Hey guys thanks for reading. Send me your love!


	6. Chapter 6

Thanks for the feedback, guys, you help make writing these a real pleasure when I'm stuck in rut (and there have been a lot of ruts lately!). Schoolwork combined with the tragedy of Ike, this just didn't get done as fast as it should have. But thanks for your patience, kids, and happy reading!

--

Falling Slowly Chapter 6

So I'm in my hotel room, drinking wine again.

I'm not normally a drinker; I'll have one or two on social occasions mostly. But since I arrived in New York I seem to be doing more drinking alone than I have in my life. I'm not even really in the mood to find a club or a bar, where I might be able to find someone to drink with me. Nope, I'm content to sulk in my expensive hotel room and drink by myself, wallowing in the depths of my bad mood. I sit sprawled on the cushioned chair, in my night clothes (flannel pajama pants and a black cami), with a monster sized glass to make the night go by just a little bit faster.

What do they say about drinking alone? I can't remember.

This is my second bottle of Pinot Grigio this week, but after today I certainly needed it. Work at the studio was particularly stressful, considering that the project I had invested so much time and money in is now very much in jeopardy.

The day had actually started very well, with Daddy calling to tell me that all of the executives on the board had listened to some of Zoë's tracks and were willing to do more than consider the EP we had been recording, they had agreed to fund a full length studio album at our studios in Los Angeles. It truly was a momentous occasion, for an artist this new to get signed on a few starting tracks spoke volumes of the perceived potential from the record company.

And her reaction was excited and ecstatic just like it should be, but the good feelings came to a screeching halt when she and her 5 foot shrill voiced harpy of an agent informed me that they would not be leaving New York under any circumstances.

"But you don't understand," I pleaded, "this studio space is not our principle recording area. Our studios are in Los Angeles, and the deal would only happen if you came to LA to record. It wouldn't look good for you or me to hole ourselves up in New York waiting for them to come to us. They'd throw everything, all our hard work out the window!"

"But I just don't understand why Ms. Marquez can't record here," the Harpy screeches in reply.

And on went the argument. The reasons given for wanting to record in New York were understandable, but not under any circumstance a deal changer. To have to pay extra for studio space in New York when they had technologically advanced studios in LA would be the deal _breaker_. Eventually, Tony had to break it up so that we could continue working. We were paying for this studio time, after all.

We continued recording afterward, but not as cheerily as before. The whole thing left a sour taste in my mouth, and no one was really putting their heart into their work any longer. The Harpy had just put the whole EP in jeopardy.

And I still can't stop thinking about Lilly. About how she's changed, how I've changed, how I wished that we would swallow our pride and just clear the air between us. It's been a day since I've seen her, so our last meeting is still fresh in my mind. I drifted off way too many times when I knew I should have been concentrating, but thank God no one noticed.

The curtains are open, and I enjoy my very expensive view of the city's beauty. I see the lights on the roofs and sides of buildings, from curtainless windows, to street lamps and signs and head and tail lights of speeding cars. Nights in New York are just as hectic as New York days, they just have different lighting.

It's not even that late, I realize as I glance at the clock on the nightstand. Only a little after 8. I've been up since 5:30 for marathon recording and now am totally exhausted, but trying to get some sleep right now would be a pointless exercise. I never sleep much when I'm stressed or frustrated, it's been this way since I was a girl, and now seems like an appropriate time to be feeling both.

The insomnia itself seems existential; the seconds tick by in slow, steady fashion, where I'm stuck in limbo. Too late for the day before, too early for the next. I take another gulp of wine. I know I need to sleep. I'm still very concerned about my outward appearance, and these bouts of sleeplessness must make my eyes look horrible. I sit down heavily on the comfortable hotel bed, and turn my attention towards whatever is on the television I just turned on.

"Welcome back to Entertainment News I'm Mark Reynolds with all the tasty tidbits about your favorite celebs." I lift my head up slightly and take another sip of my wine. Intelligent programming, I think sarcastically.

"Tonight is all about L-O-V-E and we've got the latest news on romance with the stars."

This, at least, is entertaining for me to watch. It's like playing a never-ending game of true-false.

"First down to steamy Miami where cameras caught singer Esmeralda and her new hubby, baseball star Freddie Orroco canoodling all over the city. The luscious leading Latin lady showed off her man and her pricy 2 million dollar wedding ring and the newlyweds were also seen enjoying the hot night club scene."

"Good for her." I had met singer Esmeralda once at the Grammy's when I first started producing. She was a nice girl, and I was happy for her. It was her, after all, that introduced me to my first girlfriend.

"Next we're hopping across the pond to jolly old England. Action star Jake Ryan was seen cozying up with British starlet Amelia Warren, who is his co-star in the vampire flick "Blood Dawn". Reports say that the two were all over each other as they took in the sights around London town. Neither of the stars' reps will confirm, but friends of the Hollywood hottie confirm to Entertainment News that 'Jake is totally smitten.'"

I sip my wine coolly. This is news to me, but by no means shocking. Jake Ryan always seemed to have a habit of dating his co-stars.

"And last but most certainly not least comes news from the Big Apple itself, New York City. Former teen pop sensation turned mega million music producer Miley Stewart, better known as Hannah Montana, has been spotted in New York after months keeping in the shadows. She was seen having a coffee date with an unknown female admirer this week."

And on my TV is a grainy photo of me hugging Lilly in the coffee shop the morning I ran into her. Her back is to the camera, but mine is not, and I have the sappiest look on my face. I almost spit my wine out. Oh my god. And here I thought I was in the clear with the paparazzi. Stupid, stupid.

Damn it. I throw up a silent prayer that Lilly's not watching television right now. The picture then switches to a zoomed in shot of the kiss I planted on Lilly's cheek. I feel my cheeks grow hot, and it's only partially from the sudden ingestion of alcohol.

"Miss Stewart hasn't been seen in any romantic poses in public since her public break up with Jake Ryan in 2009 and her shocking relationship with dancer Julia Ivanova last year. No details yet, but we'll keep you updated."

Okay. That's it. No more TV for tonight. I turn the set off and flop onto the bed. I remember a moment with Lilly, one of our last, that took place in a bed much like this on.

--

Morning. Light streams through my window, forcing my bleary eyes to open. I'm in my bed, like I should be, but I sense that something is different, that something has changed. I stretch, yawn, snuggle back into the warmth of my bed, pull up the sheet to try and block the sun. It seems just a little too bright this morning, and there's a slight aching at my temples.

And then, all of my memory rushes back to me. The party. Drinking. Lilly. Kissing Lilly. Touching Lilly. Lilly touching me in return.

I half sit up in bed, and feel next to me for her, but the space where she lay is empty. The sheets are still warm, she's either still here, or just left. I don't know which one would make me feel better.

Then I hear sounds coming from the bathroom, and Lilly comes into sight once more.

She's nearly naked, just in her bra and underwear. I am aware of it, and blush at my own obvious nakedness, pull the sheet on the bed further up. Her face is unreadable. I feel a thickness begin to form at the back of my throat, it clogs my ability to speak.

"I'll be out of your way soon." She tries to make the words nonchalant, but her voice shakes with underlying nervousness and emotion.

Finally, I open my mouth. "Oh. I thought you might want to talk about it."

She breaks our gaze and moves across the room. "I figured that you wouldn't want to." She grabs her pants from the floor and pulls them on in one fluid motion. I watch, feel perverted for doing so. I see hickeys on her neck. Did I create those?

"Look," she says, "I know I fucked things up, Miles, so if we can forget it and still just be friends…" her voice trails off. She moves towards me, sits down on the end of the bed.

"Lilly?"

"Yeah," she replies, softly.

"When did you know you were gay?"

She sighs. "I'm not really sure. It was always weird kissing my boyfriends, but I figured it would get better over time. But it didn't."

"Oh." I realize now what a lousy friend I've been. All the times she had told me she was fine, when I saw pain in her eyes when she smiled, I never connected any dots. Never thought about the struggle that she must have been going through. I was too busy wrapped up in my own issues to think about all the pain my best friend was going through. I'm overcome with a desire to hug her, to hold her to my body, but as I move towards her she stiffens.

"This is all my fault."

"No, it isn't." I reply firmly. "I participated equally last night, if you'll remember."

I see the pale skin of her cheek flush. "But what now?"

"I don't know." And I don't. Do I love her? She's my best friend. Am I gay, too? Does that even matter at this point?

"I'm in love with you, Miley," her voice is close to tears, and it makes me want to cry, too.

"Lilly, I love you…but I just don't know…"

"I know," she interrupts, not wanting hear the rest. "I know. And that's okay." She turns to me once again, tears streaming down her face. "I just need to know that you won't hate me."

"God, of course not," the thickness in my throat breaks, and I begin to cry too. "Lilly, I could never hate you."

She turns away again. "Good. Good."

I quickly wipe the tears from my eyes. "But we can still hang out. We have the whole summer before we go to school."

For a few long moments, Lilly doesn't reply. She retrieves her shirt from where it was thrown, pulls it over her head, and pulls her long blonde hair back into a messy bun.

"I won't be here for the whole summer. I'm going to see my dad in New York."

"Oh, okay. Well I can visit you wherever you're going to go. Did you choose yet?"

She averts her eyes from mine.

"Actually, I was thinking of going to Barnard College."

"Where is that? Is it south of LA?"

"No. It's in New York City."

My jaw drops. "What?!"

"Nothing's been finalized! It was just on a whim that I even wrote the essays for the application. I just wanted to see if I could get in. I just thought…"

"You could have told me about all this!"

"I'm sorry, Miley. I've just always wanted to try and be a writer in New York and I thought it might make me happy and…"

She keeps talking, but I've tuned out, letting the sheet fall around my waist, now oblivious of my nakedness. Why is this happening now? I knew she wanted to write, but I had never taken our sleepover whisperings of her living in New York seriously. I had been so stupid.

"Just say it, and I'll stay. I won't leave if you don't want me too. I could go to UCLA or somewhere else…" her voice trails off desperately.

"Miley?"

Say something, you idiot.

"Miley?" Tears are reforming in her eyes, and I pull mine away. I feel awful, I want to crawl under my bed and just die. I'm breaking her heart, and it kills me. But I open my mouth, and I can't speak. She's offering to put her life plans on hold for you, whether or not you return her love or not. I finally speak, the most hurtful words that I've ever said to anyone.

"Lilly. Just go."

Silence. The pain in her eyes, watching my words rip her heart into pieces. And the light goes out of her eyes, replaced by a steely reserve.

"Okay then. I'll leave you alone."

And she's gone.

--

My reverie is brought to an abrupt ending by someone knocking on the door. Did I imagine it? No, there it is again, and this time I force my lazy self to get up and make my way towards the door.

God, who could it be at this hour? Maybe the Harpy had come back to screech a little more in my face about the proper way to draft and execute a contact. I chuckle a little on the inside, and lean forward to peer through the peephole in the door. Many years of accumulated scratches on the glass outside make the figure on the other side rather unrecognizable, but he or she is too tall to be the Harpy, so I relax the tiniest bit. Wine glass still in my other hand, I remove the chain on the door, turn the lock, and pull the door open to face whoever is outside.

"Lilly. Hi." I don't bother to try and hide the surprise in my voice.

"Can I come in?"

She's wearing a large navy blue hoodie with the hood up, and athletic shorts. It seems unlike her, more like the past Lilly than the modern Lilly. It makes me feel a little bit nervous, more like past Miley than modern Miley. She glances down at her attire briefly, then looks back up at me. Her blue eyes seem to glow from within the cave created by the hood. "Excuse the lack of fashion. I was on my way home from the gym."

"Please, come in."

I say it as casually as I possibly can, even though inside I am in a jumble. What ever happened to that unspoken rule? The one where we meticulously plan out when and where we are going to meet so that we fully prepared for seeing each other. What happened to that? Because now she's here, at my hotel room door, and I am most certainly not prepared at all.

"Thanks," her voice is distant, like she's preoccupied with other thoughts, but she steps into the room as soon as I pull it open.

"Wow, what a room" she comments off-handedly as I close and lock the door behind her. "You guys in the music biz really know how to travel in style." She strolls into the room slowly, back turned to me.

"Thanks," I say cautiously, watch her. She paces around the room a little more, touches the oak desk with one finger, drags it across the smooth polished wood. A quick memory flashes through my mind, of Lilly dragging that very same finger down my throat, my chest, my stomach hungrily as my eighteen year old body writhes and arches into the touch. My breath catches a little in my throat, and I will the thought out of my mind.

"Wine?" I hold up the bottle of Pinot, but she shakes her head.

"Would you like to sit?" I motion to upholstered chair next to the bed. She nods, and move to sit in the chair. I set my glass of wine down on the nightstand next to the clock and sit on the bed across from her. As I situate myself in a cross-legged position, I steal a glance at her bare legs (why on earth is she wearing shorts in this weather?), and see a horrendous looking bruise on one smooth toned leg. "What on earth happened to your leg?"

There I go again, being too forward, but I watch with pleasure as she blushes, a much darker shade of red this time.

"Let's just say I got in a fight with a treadmill and I didn't win" she laughs nervously, and stretches out her leg to get a better look at it. "God, it gets bigger every time I look at it."

Now I'm looking at her leg, but not specifically at the bruise. Now it's my turn to blush. I avert my eyes quickly.

"So what did you want to talk about?" I wish I had my wine right about now, to sip, or even just to hold the glass. I start to get fidgety, and I feel my fingers begin to twitch in anticipation of Lilly's words.

"I just wanted to say that I'm sorry that I've been really weird since we've been in touch." I fold my arms across my chest, press them to me tightly and feel my heart beating.

"It's just been really overwhelming seeing you after all this time and I haven't dealt with so many issues about what happened between us."

I nod, take a deep breath, let it out slowly. "You shouldn't be apologizing. I think I owe you some answers that are long overdue."

We lock eyes, and for the first time in a long time I feel completely out of sorts, I can't sense anything but the bright blue of hers linked with mine. Seconds pass that seem like hours, and then, she speaks.

"Why didn't you return any of my calls or emails? I mean, eight years, Miley. I just had to stop trying after awhile."

It's a simple statement, but I hear the pain in her words. And I can imagine it. Sending emails to your supposed best friend and only seeing an empty inbox day after day, sending text messages that never get replies, leaving forlorn voicemails, every day more certain that I wasn't even listening to them anymore.

But I was. Every single one. The voicemails especially made me want to cry, to scream at myself for my utter stupidity. She was gone. In New York City, for God's sake, almost 2500 miles away.

"Because I was scared, Lilly. The night we..." What words should I use? It doesn't really matter, of course, but then again, it does. "…had sex was the first time anything really happened between us, and we had been drinking, and weren't really thinking about the consequences of our actions. It all just happened too fast. I tried a thousand times to deal with what happened between us but by the time I did it was too late. You were long gone."

A silence falls over the room, thick and heavy like a blanket, and even though my heart is pounding and I feel awkward and nervous I cannot take my eyes off of Lilly. Her hair, damp and pulled back. A few beads of moisture cling to her brow, perhaps sweat, perhaps from a shower she's just taken. Her mouth partially open, short breaths, blue eyes wide and searching. I want to reach out and hold her to me, to feel her body next to mine to prove that she's actually here, right in front of me.

After a few long seconds of quiet, she chuckles dryly. "You know, you were my first."

"You were mine, too."

She looks at me incredulously, as if not quite sure to believe me or not. "No shit? I always figured that you and Jake Ryan..."

I wave a hand in dismissal. "Never did. People always assumed, though. But I never let him."

"Oh."

"When did you come out to your family?" I ask.

"About two years after I left California. Dad was surprisingly cool with it, but it took Mom a little longer. We didn't speak for awhile after I told her, but that didn't last too long. She just wants me to be happy."

I nod. "Seeing anybody? Long term girlfriend?"

"Not for awhile now. My last relationship was a little over a year so I decided to fly solo for awhile. What about you? Any guys in the picture? I swear, every other week the tabloids say that you and Jake Ryan are getting back together."

I remember the entertainment show, and gulp nervously. "Ah, not exactly."

"I read about you and that dancer though. Did you guys really date?"

I nod again. "Yeah, she was my first official girlfriend. I dated a few guys before that, but with Julia it got pretty serious."

"How did your Dad take it?"

"He was surprised." I believe the term is 'deer caught in the headlights'. Daddy never saw it coming, but he ended up treating Julia like any of my other boyfriends, like a lion protecting its cubs. "He just wants me to be happy."

Another long silence, but this time it's more comfortable. I feel like, for the first time in 8 years, a piece of my best friend is finally back with me. Of course she's changed, and I wouldn't change that, but a little piece of the old Lilly is finally starting to shine through. When she speaks again, her voice is somber.

"Do you regret what we did in high school? Or did it mean nothing?" she asks as nonchalantly as she can. God. It's a question I have expected, but I wince at the words nonetheless.

Where is my wine?

"No, Lilly," I almost whisper. "I don't regret it, and it could never mean nothing." I reach out and take one of her hands.

"I did have feelings for you, Lilly. I did. I was just so scared to face them that I ended up pushing you away and by the time I realized how much that night meant to me it was too late."

"Me…meant something to you?"

"Yes. You were my first. And I don't regret it at all."

My heart thumps in my chest but to say those words out loud feels so good that I just can't stop speaking.

"And I know that I was a lousy friend, I never helped you through your coming out like I should have. I should have faced my fears and been brave like you were. And the day I let you walk out my bedroom without telling you what I was really feeling was the worst day of my life."

Our eyes are still locked, and mine are beginning to form tears at their corners. But my voice is surprisingly steady. I look at her, beautiful Lilly, beads of moisture at her temples, mouth slightly open. I stare at her lips, try to remember what it feels like to have them resting on mine.

And then she's suddenly pressed against me, wraps me up in a tight, passionate embrace that takes my breath away. I can feel her heart beating, I can hear her breathing, and everything feels just like it used to when I last held her. I return the hug with all my strength.

We pull back just slightly, face each other still wrapped in our half embrace and she whispers to me,

"I've missed you so much."

"I'm sorry it took me this long to find you."

She lets out a soft laugh, and wipes a single tear that appears in the corner of her eye. "I think I'll take that wine now".

Hours later, and I don't want the night to end. We've finished the Pinot, but don't order another. We talk. We talk about the past, about high school like we never have. The more I listen to her, the more I know that all the awkwardness, the waiting, was all worth it. And suddenly, as I stare into her big blue laughing eyes, something turns in me, like a key turning over the tumblers in a lock.

I just might still be in love with her.

"Miley?" She waves a hand in front of my face. "Earth to Miley. You okay? Too much wine?"

I shake my head, then take her hands.

"Come to this thing with me. The girl I'm out here recording for has a live show tomorrow night."

"Isn't a work thing?"

"Not really. I can get you in for free, too. It'll be like when we were kids."

She laughs. "Like a date?" Her tone is joking, but mine is serious.

"So what do you say? It doesn't have to be a date if you don't want to, we can just hang out."

She blushes yet again, so vulnerable and this time I mirror it. She's biting her lip and oh God, I wish I knew what she was thinking and it takes her way too long to open her mouth to speak.

"I'd love to go on a date with you, Miley Stewart."

All my breath leaves me at once.

Eventually she has to leave (work tomorrow morning), and as I close the door behind her I smile.

So today was a good day.


End file.
